


Winter Roses and Rough Hands

by LemonadeLimousine



Category: North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Growing to love one another, Plot Twists, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, aka john actually makes an effort to woo margaret before proposing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeLimousine/pseuds/LemonadeLimousine
Summary: Margaret and John find some common ground after their dispute at the dinner party, and, despite their almost wilful ability to misunderstand one another coupled with Margaret's ability to land herself in trouble, the tentative tendrils of something beautiful takes root inside them.
Relationships: Margaret Hale & John Thornton, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 29
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter One

Margaret felt the all-together too familiar sting of her vulnerability as the rest of the women in the room shunned her attempts at casual conversation; embarrassment, combined with an undercurrent of anger and resentment for being treated in such a manner for simply speaking her mind, seemed to force her into continually reliving the last half an hour despite her best efforts to totally ignore it. It wasn't fair, truly - although she knew that deep down the way she had spoken to Mr Thornton had been a little...forthright, if she had been a man, or a Northerner, she felt sure that it wouldn't have been treated as quite the affront it clearly was to the women (and presumably their husbands, boarded up in another room with cards and Margaret suspected, far too much brandy) who weren't making the slightest bit of effort to be companionable. 

She fidgeted in her uncomfortable chair, desperate for  _ something  _ to do other than stare at her hands for an hour when the clock chimed ten, lifting the weight of anxiety off of her chest momentarily. Although her father had a great love of social occasions, and a great love for his fellow man these were surpassed by a yet greater love for his routines; for as long as she could remember, her parents had retired bang on the dot of ten. The clock striking gave her hope that he'd whisk her away from this horrible room with its horrible occupants sharpish, and, true to his well travelled pattern, her father appeared at the door of the sitting room to collect her not five minutes later. 

"Margaret my dear, I hate to tear you away from the festivities, but I really think we ought to be going - any later and we'll wake your mother, traipsing back into the house at this hour, and you know Dixon will scold us so!" Her father looked tired, but his face slipped into something more like gentle alarm when Margaret practically jumped at him the moment he finished talking like an attention-starved puppy. He had a vague impression that Margaret was not, unlike most young ladies, the sort of person who thrived off of social occasions, and yet her lack of decorum this evening was quite astounding, even if he did say so himself. He worried she was sickening in the back of his mind, and yet there were so many complications and rules of a young lady's life that, on the other hand, he couldn't blame her for acting out a little especially when she was among people who were so resistant to being understood.

"Oh father, I am glad you came - I'm more than happy to put this sorry evening behind me," Margaret whispered "I feel as though I constantly put my foo- Mr Thornton!" Though she had been following close behind her father, as she turned the corner out of the room her eyes had been so downcast that she barrelled head first into the man not two hours ago she'd been practically shouting at across the dining table. 

"Steady on, lass. I know we may have exchanged cross words this evening but there's no need to knock me down in my own house." If Margaret didn't know his stern ways, she'd have said that sounded almost like a joke - and perhaps the way his eyes twinkled in the dark corridor told that it had indeed been a humorous remark, but frankly Margaret was far too busy blushing the colour of a freshly picked strawberry to pay much attention to that. She was far too busy concentrating on simultaneously backing away and apologising, and noticing just how tall and solid her frequent antagonist was - though their contact had been brief and in no way sensual, she was suddenly very aware of how masculine he was, looking down on her from a great height. Neither her father, not Fred, not even either of the Lennoxes were as tall or broad shouldered as he, and suddenly Margaret felt something she hadn't before. She realised she felt the way his workers must have felt under his glare as he watched them work, as if he exuded power simply by existing, as if his gaze sent electric shocks down her spine. 

"I'm sorry, Sir, I must apologise for my clumsiness."

"And I must apologise for lurking round dark corners and scaring pretty ladies like a ruffian, Miss Hale. Mr Hale, it's been a pleasure to have you and your daughter's company tonight - I am only sorry that we are all a little less genteel than what you're used to, despite our best efforts." Now Margaret really could hear the humour in his voice. Perhaps he had had a little too much brandy, or perhaps she had had a little too much wine at dinner, but he seemed to have lost his general gruffness even if his face was still as stern. Although, as they walked up the corridor towards the entrance, she wasn't quite so sure that even that was still in place as he looked back towards her a frankly unreasonable amount of times whilst making light conversation with her father. 

"Oh, drat my memory - I meant to tell that fellow of yours from Derby about my upcoming lecture on Grecian pottery. John, would it be amiss of me to leave Margaret here with you whilst I go back and let him know, save me forgetting another time and losing out on his interest?" Her father carried that same pained look that graced his soft features whenever he'd conceived himself to have done any other man a wrong, and despite the fact that Margaret thought that this man, who was probably another manufacturer, had little interest in Grecian urns. And yet despite the fact that she understood that her father would think it the end of the world if he didn't go back to this man from Derby, whoever he was, the thought of him leaving her here with Mr Thornton made her breath hitch - and unmarried woman left alone with an eligible bachelor would cause no manner of gossip, despite the fact that she knew that the whole household, if not the whole town knew that there was no love lost between them. She had had quite enough of their tittle-tattling ways already. But before she could protest, Mr Thornton nodded.

"Of course, Mr Hale - take all the time you need. Miss Hale and I will wait for you in my study. Miss Hale, come and sit in here, if you please." 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit s t e a m y! (sorry for the frankly dreadfully long chapter but I couldn't bear to separate this up into smaller chunks - it just didn't read right)

Despite her discomfort at being left alone, Margaret had to concede that Mr Thornton's study was rather a lovely place to be, especially in comparison to the tension of the drawing room. Dark as it was outside, after he lighted a few lamps placed strategically around the room, the space was filled with a comfortingly soft glow which somehow reminded her of the soft evening sunlight that was one of her most favourite memories of Helstone to distract herself with when the greyness of Milton because all too oppressive. The room was not overly large, but perhaps what made it seem so cozy, she thought, was the rows and rows of books all lined up neatly on dark wooden shelves. Reaching out to touch a volume gently, Margaret luxuriated in the feeling of soft leather against her fingertips, buttery-smooth and black in the low lighting, although she though it would be a rich dark green in daylight, before turning guiltily as she felt the gaze of her companion on her back. Although once her eyes adjusted to the brighter light of the centre of the room Mr Thornton was hurriedly tidying up scraps of paper and empty ink bottles into an empty drawer with a solemn look on his face, she _knew _she hadn't imagined the sensation on her skin; it was like a warmth spreading out from her shoulder-blades, and although it wasn't uncomfortable it was like nothing she'd ever felt before, certainly.

Moving across the room to where another, larger series of books stood proudly on their shelves, she studied them until she heard footsteps, quieter and more tentative than his normal gait, which she'd become quite accostmed to listening to as he stomped up and down the stairs of her house during her father's tutoring. She couldn't stop a soft smile from gracing her face as she turned around to look at him as his head snapped up at a ridiculous rate, sending tufts of his hair quivering out of place as a rueful look spread over his usually impassive face.

" There's no need to look quite as though you have been caught red-handed, Sir - this is your study after all, and I am merely a trespasser." Quite a strange thing happened, then - he smiled at her, not his usual half smile that looked more like a grimace, but a true smile that she'd only ever seen when walking past her father's study whilst they were having their meetings. Disconcerted, Margaret smiled weakly and turned back to the bookshelf. 

" I must confess I had no idea you were so well read Mr Thornton. Why, you even have volumes from Americas and the Far East!" Margaret recognised some of the titles from her father's studies but others were more foreign, bearing the usual scuffs and indentations of being carried across the seas from far off places. 

"It may surprise you, Miss Hale, but just because I'm an industry man doesn't mean I don't appreciate fine literature. At school I was one of the best in my class and that love of learning has continued even when I could no longer attend." Thornton walked over to her, running his hands down a few spines as if he were looking for something as Margaret blushed silently at having once again walked straight into a faux pas. 

" I did not presume so because you work in industry, Mr Thornton."

"No?"

"No, I presumed so because ... well, because you are a Northman, and you Northerners seem to have refuted such fancies - Fanny's sense in fashion excluded, of course." The guffaw of laughter that erupted from Mr Thornton's chest was so loud it made her jump. Quite honestly, she had been expecting a reprimand for the comment that had slipped out of her mouth before her brain had had a chance to catch up, especially from a man normally so severe and yet he was laughing so hard at her comment she felt an irrational fear he’d break a rib. That made her sure of it: he'd definitely had too much brandy with the other men. He turned to face her, still smiling, and his whole body seemed to relax as if he had been held tight with strings like a marionette until his fit of laughter.

"Miss Hale, I never knew you had such comedic timing - your quick wit and intelligence has been evident in every one of our interactions, yet I must say it is more than pleasant to hear it when you are smiling than when you are angry at me." His smile softened then, and Margaret felt another wash of embarrassment roll over her. It was true, she was perhaps too hard on the man, and despite their first meeting being quite atrocious he had shown her that he was at least not the devil incarnate, she supposed. No, especially considering he has now rubbed his hands through his dark hair more times than she thought right and left it tousled, he looked more like a sweetly bashful boy than a hard master of men. 

"I meant to apologise, Mr Thornton - not for what I said, but the way I said it, and the way I addressed you. It was rude, and although I know that you're one of the more lenient masters, my sense of humanitarianism comes far too easily even when I know next to nothing of the context of the situation."

She looked him in the eyes then, and took his hand as if to shake it, trying to still her heartbeat which she wanted to believe was beating out of her chest because she was still embarrassed, but knew it was because the physical contact, despite the fact that they had shook hands before, was entirely foreign to her. "I hope, Mr Thornton, we can part as friends - though I do wish there was something to be done to improve the quality of life your workers have, it has never been my intention to do so at your detriment." She squeezed his hand slightly at those last words, hoping that it would reinforce her desire to show that she did not want to be his enemy despite the fact that she could not quite meet his eye for fear of him seeing how earnest her apology was. He hummed softly, using his free hand to gently ease her face up to where he could see her, his dark eyes never leaving hers as he moved his hand to place it over the one of hers still grasping his.

"Miss Hale, parting friends suits me splendidly, but you must understand, though I fear that the feeling is not mutual, I rather enjoy your outbursts - no, don't interrupt! I can feel your indignancy radiating off of you, but truth be told, I like your spirit even if the rest of Milton society brands you as an interfering _ woman. _Neither your views nor the fact that you hold them whilst also being a woman could draw you down in my estimations. I know when we first met you probably thought me a man possessed by nothing but anger and greed but, despite the harsh way I have to treat my men when they step out of line, I do try to do my best by them, believe me, although it is hard to when my peers seem to revel in any opportunity to take advantage of theirs". He stroked her hand gently, as if trying to calm a nervous horse, but Margaret felt as though she could make no argument against, nor no noise in response to his confession. His blatant gaze, the closeness of his body seemed to be holding her in chains, rooted to the spot. Eventually, her brain began to form the most basic of words, although they came forth in the softest whisper. 

" I believe you, Mr Thornton, although how you can manage to stand my blunt ways when so many of your peers find me despicable I cannot confess to understand." He smiled again at that, squeezing the hand which was nestled between his.

" Perhaps we have more in common than you might expect, Miss Hale, for all your Southern airs and graces."

"Excuse me, Mr Thornton, but I feel as though I have spent long enough in Milton to escape that label - I can assure you, I think I have become positively rough compared to my family in the South!"

"Well if you will associate with unionists and their daughters, what do you expect? Soon we'll find you loitering round dark alleyways in Princeton, supping gin with toothless old men and throwing stones at cats!'

"Mr Thornton! May I remind you that it was you who jumped out of a dark corridor on me this very night.". He smiled devilishly at her then, and she wondered how his face could go from so foreboding to being so light so quickly. Brandy most probably, she reminded herself, and yet she was close enough to him to feel his breath on her skin and it didn't smell like the sweet tang of excessive alcohol at all.

"Call me John, please, Miss Hale. Mr Thornton sounds so very formal and if I'm to believe you consider me as friendly as you do that unionist, you must call me John."

"_ Mr Thornton, _i don't think your mother would quite approve of that - I don't want to get on her bad side any more than I already am, she's a formidable woman."

"You're quite right, and she wouldn't approve of this either, but I'm still going to do it."

"Wha-!" Margaret gasped as Mr Thornton brought her hand up to his face and kissed the back of it softly. It was quite a chivalrous action, really, but in the soft darkness of his study combined with the lingering length of the kiss, Margaret felt all of the blood rush to her face at once, leaving her light headed. He surveyed her face, and finding no apparent revulsion in it, stroked his thumb over the back of her hand and kissed it again. It was the softest thing Margaret had ever felt and yet it sent a shock-wave of feeling down her arm as if she'd been shot, and yet still she didn't pull her arm away. He entwined the fingers of his left hand in hers as he did, made bold by her lack of complaint and dropped the other, resting his right hand on her cheek.

"I hope you do not think me out of line, Miss Margaret, when I say you were the most beautiful woman in the room this evening. Especially when you were shouting at me, actually, it gives you a rather becoming blush." Margaret had been about to pull away as he began speaking, embarrassed by his closeness and scared of her enjoyment of his ministrations, and yet as he made her giggle quite _un_becomingly, she once again felt the pull of his magnetic gaze. It was funny, really; she'd never considered him more than a foe, and certainly hadn't ever considered any good feeling towards the man, and quite honestly, still wasn't sure that she did. But at the same time, despite her lack of emotional closeness to Mr Thornton, the thrill of his physical closeness was undeniable and although she knew she should be ashamed of herself, that she should be fearing for her reputation try as she might she could not pull herself away. 

"Mr Thorn-"

"John, _ please. _At least for tonight when we are cloistered in the shadows safely, Miss Hale."

At that moment, the pair heard footsteps quickly approaching and pushed away from one another with all the energy of naughty schoolboys.

"Ah, Mr Hale! Margaret and I were just discussing the relative attributes of Plato's Republic, but I'm sure that's a conversation that can wait for another day. I'll show you to the door, if you're quite finished - I presume your carriage is waiting."

"Yes John, that sounds wonderful - remind me at our next meeting, would you? The mind isn't quite what it once was, unfortunately. Margaret, are you read- are you quite well, my dear?" He looked at Margaret and Mr Thornton in turn with a troubled look on his face, but before Margaret could even squeak a reply, he smiled and shook his head. "I thought perhaps you were sickening after all, dear, but as you both look rather flushed I think its the lighting! Thank you again for a wonderful evening, John, and thank your mother for us too."

"Of course, Mr Hale."

As Mr Thornton lead the pair out, he was the image of the gracious host, and yet Margaret felt his occasional touches and looks as though he was on fire, the guiding hand on her back, the too long hold of her hand as he helped her into the carriage, the burning look as she looked back at him from the carriage as they left the house.

All in all, she'd have a lot to think about before morning came around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! hope you liked these ... developments! The story is rated the way it is because things are going to get rather steamy in a reasonably short amount of time, but considering the context of the novel and the fact that despite their outbursts, both John and Margaret have always seemed to me to be quite emotionally vulnerable (and because one of my biggest gripes about the original novel is that the ending happens so quickly!) I decided I wanted to give them a bit of a slow burn to start with. As always, leave a comment if you liked it!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lets off a little steam after the party. (Original content from the book is italicized - it's only a line or two but it's honestly one of my favourite quotes in the book so I couldn't not include it, especially as this fic will probably displace it in the name of diverging from the canon!)

John rested the side of his head against the cool brick exterior of the doorway, a thousand images flickering inside his skull. Despite their argument early on (which John had immediately regretted despite the fact he adored it when Margaret got fired up, what with it being so public and her looking so heartbreakingly miserable afterwards), he felt as though he'd finally turned a corner with Margaret, finally got her to see him as a man rather than a master. But now that her presence was gone and he had been left alone with his thoughts, his weariness had manifested in a sour self doubt. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her, ever since she had had the gall to stand up to him in front of a room full of his men when he had been in a terrible rage, the sight of her had made his body hum in an interesting mix of pleasure and terror, and he had foolishly thought that once he had made his feelings clear to her, it'd be like a valve releasing steam and he'd find some peace. 

  
He realised now that that was not so: quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn't that he was scared at her exactly, although many a time he had thought that the look in her eyes would scare a lesser man to death, but scared of ruining himself in her eyes; scared of removing any chance of making his most deeply buried fantasies reality. He had no shame in the way his body and his mind reacted to her, reacted first to the simple sight of her, and tonight to the smell and feel and taste of her. His mind's obsession with replaying every thought he had of her over and over again with increasing levels of make believe added in, however, was something he had tried to keep buried deep inside his soul in his day to day life.

  
But tonight, God. The sight of her laughing, smiling even, had been enough to tell him that whilst he may be able to bury his base fantasies, he couldn't keep hiding the feelings of his heart. Margaret Hale made his body weak in a way not even the most strenuous of activity could, made his heart beat so fast and so true against his ribs that he was worried she'd see it, not that he thought she ever spared him a second glance. And whilst normally he would have eaten his own feet before attempting to make a move on her, would have prostated himself in front of a train before risking his heart to a woman that he was pretty sure hated him, tonight had forced him to at least try. Although he had told her that it was her beauty which enraptured him, in reality it was her heart too - although he had significantly less sympathy for his workers than she, the fact that in her own sometimes missguided way would continue to stick up for them even when it garnered the dislike of her social circle (or rather, his, as he was sure that she probably liked her friend Bessie a hundred times more than anyone else in that room), made him realise just how special she truly was. 

  
He sighed into the night air. Although she hadn't seemed too offput by his advances, blushing beautifully with her lips slightly parted in a way that made him long to kiss her and feel the world melt away around them, he had a feeling that wooing her would be a difficult procedure. Unlike some men he knew, who had simply asked the father for permission to court and then had been presented the daughter whenever they felt like taking her out, he doubted that Mr Hale would do such a thing and doubted even less that Margaret would let him do so without him becoming an object of resentment for the rest of her life. No, she'd be a tricky one, a slow burning romance would be necessary despite the urgency with which he wanted to pull her into his arms and possibly (definitely, definitely) also his bed without in the very near future, but he'd work something out. He always did.

  
"John, love, what are you doing standing out here? You'll catch cold." His mother appeared very much like a cat without making any noise, placing a hand on her son's shoulder and rubbing it gently. "Are you quite well?"

  
"Aye, mother, I'm quite well. Just needed a bit of peace and quiet after being alone with the men for so long, they get ever so rowdy. I'll come in now." He smiled at her, taking her hand in his, and turning to walk inside but she didn't move. 

"John."

"Yes mother?"

"Don't pine after that girl, my lad. If she feels as you do, she'll come to you. I won't discourage you from courting, Lord knows it's your God-given right, but just remember: _a mother’s love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A girl’s love is like a puff of smoke,—it changes with every wind_. I don't want you to pin your hopes on some southern girl with all airs and no sense of the real world." John nodded, not trusting himself not to spill everything to his mother. It had been hard enough policing his own longing glances when she was around; he had always told his mother everything, and yet the last thing he wanted to tell her right now was every sordid detail of his fantasies of Margaret, or his meeting with Margaret, or really anything about Margaret in general considering how unusually perceptive his mother was.

She reached up and held his face like she had done when he was a little boy then, smiling softly.   
"John, I know you probably find my interfering irritating, as I once did with my own mother's, but take it from me son - my love for you grows with every waking second and though you are a grown man, everything that pains you cuts me just as deeply. It breaks my heart that I can no longer bundle you up and protect you like I did when you were an infant, so I am resigned to being the overbearing matriarch instead."

"I love you too, mother. You're my best advisor, always have been." He hugged her tight then, trying to soothe her own fears as well as his. 

"Oh, tosh. Come on now, our guests are leaving and it wouldn't do for them to be neglected by their gracious host, and you've got to be up early with the mill tomorrow."

"Aye, aye. I'm comin'."  
  


The farewells seemed to go on forever; each man had to slap his arm or make some comment, their wives all gave thanks and all of the single women seemed to batt their eyelashes at him, despite the fact that they had all done so before and nothing had come of it. John didn't understand it at all. Although he was certainly the youngest of all the masters and he supposed he had some charm in him, he wasn't renowned for being pleasant company and surely if you were looking for a husband that would have to be a key consideration alongside his ability to support them. He cursed himself. At the thought of husband, an image of Margaret flashed across his mind unbidden, smiling and sprawled across his bed, and a feeling of heat tore through his body. It was all well and good trying to ignore his feelings, except for when his mind decided to act against him. 

Once the last guest had left in their carriage, John loosened his cravat and rubbed his eyes, earning a dissaproving look from his mother.

"Go to bed, John, I'll finish up down here. You look terrible."

"Thank you for that, mother - don't worry, I'm on my way. 'night." He pecked her on the cheek and then dragged himself up the stairs at a snail's pace as the toll of the day fell on his shoulders. But as heavy as his body felt, his soul felt light for the first time in a long time, graced by the feeling of the woman he cared pressed against him, her hands in his.   
  


He decided that the bed was warm enough to forego a nightshirt, he decided, pulling the covers over his slightly damp clean skin. There was something luxuriously sensual in having a bed so comfortable, about having sheets so soft gliding against his naked skin that he didn't normally get to revel in considering how many hours of the day he spent working, but tonight, he was rather preoccupied by images of Margaret. Her face, her hands, her body in positions he'd never seen anyone in, let alone her - she was perfect in each one, radiating a golden aura like an angel. His angel, he hoped, if her reaction tonight was anything to go by. Although she had not reciprocated his advances, he had heard her breath hitch when he kissed her hand, felt her pulse race against the skin of her wrist, saw the way her pupils had dilated as he gazed down at her. He'd never imagined how soft her skin was, how cool her body was against his, how she'd smell like wild roses and how his name would sound coming out of her mouth -

He groaned against his lips, pressed together as if they were being pinched by tongs in an effort to suppress the sound in the knowledge that the household was still awake around him.

Christ. That was fast. 

Not entirely surprising though; he'd been glad of the darkness when Mr Hale had walked in considering if it had been any lighter, both he and Margaret would have seen just how much she affected him. He had felt more than slightly guilty at the time as he did now, but at the same time, he just couldn't help it. She was perfect. She consumed him.

As he wandered back to the washbasin for the second time that night, he couldn't quite look himself in the eyes and yet deep inside himself, he knew that this was just another confirmation of how deep - how true - his feelings were for Margaret. And now all he had to do was act on them. 

Terrifying.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret comes to a firm conclusion after some sleep deprived soul searching.

Margaret had been sure she wouldn't be able to sleep that night and she was right, but for all the wrong reasons. The discovery of her Mother's illness, and Bessie's bad turn earlier in the day meant that she got pray little sleep, and all the while her thoughts were kept turbulent by the image of John Thornton. Specifically the image of him kissing her hands. And her face. And her lips. And her neck. And her-

_Stop, Margaret. That's not ladylike at all._

But the truth was, she didn't want to stop. Although she'd never even thought of John Thornton in that way before, she was beginning to realise that that may have had more to do with her pretentions than him himself. He was certainly handsome in a way Henry was not. He was charming and thoughtful in a way Henry was not. And, as she realised during that long night, the idea of him touching her did not revulse her in the same way it did with other men. They had a certain chemistry, too - he made her laugh when he wasn't being stern and appreciated her ability to speak her mind, which was more than most men. But she still couldn't shake the feeling that what they had done, however minor, was sinful. She was so unsure of the world she was entering, the world of adulthood outside of her sphere of experience, where men shook hands with women and worked tirelessly for a living. She was so unsure of him, of men generally. He scared her as much as she had enjoyed his touch.

It would not do. She did not want to feel this way. Especially not for a man who she was sure that deep within herself she hated until...well. Maybe she'd never hated him, really, but she'd certainly only ever really seen _him_ when he had taken her hands in his. Her image of John Thornton had always been accompanied by subsequent images of starving underlings, smog, and white fluff. Endless white fluff. 

But when he had held her hands, it was if he had simultaneously become flesh rather than stone, and ascended away from the grime of humanity like an angel. He was overpowering, intoxicating, drawing her into himself and enveloping her with the perceptible shake of his hands as much as he did with the sensation of coiled force in his taut muscles. She had never thought that men could be vulnerable, and yet she knew that whilst the words he had spoken to her might have come easily to another man, to John Thornton the expression of his admiration for her was tantamount to the bearing of his soul. He had been warm too, so warm that she felt as though the blood in their veins had mixed through their fingertips and set her own flesh alight with a never dying fire. 

And yet there was so much she didn't know about him. She didn't know his favourite colour, his favourite book, the ways his face changed with his shifting moods or what sort of child he'd been. She didn't know whether he'd loved before. She'd always rolled her eyes when Aunt Shaw had fawned over the fact that her parents had married for love, but Margaret had bitterly realised that perhaps the woman had had a point. She'd always presumed that one could _only_ marry for love, that her eventual marriage would come over a long and pleasant period of courtship with a man she admired and adored; but that, she realised, had been before Henry. 

Henry's proposal sat uncomfortably within her mind even now, though he had acted like nothing had even happened after she'd rejected him. Henry was a true stoic

And yet here she was obsessing over a man who was usually equally impassive. 

_But no_, she chastised herself. John Thornton was anything from impassive around her; it might be expressed as anger rather than any other more pleasant emotion, but even when she disagreed with him she could tell that there was a passion which drove him that manifested in his actions. And, in his study, though his actions had been extremely reserved by illicit rendezvous standards (or so she had read), he had seemed genuine in his ministrations, unlike Henry.   
_That was it_, she realised. Unlike Henry. Unlike Henry, Mr Thornton had a warmth in his eyes that had made her feel as though she was bathed in the balmy Mediterranean sun. Unlike Henry, he had held her hands so softly, as though he was holding a fragile bird. Unlike Henry, he had not attempted to assert his dominance over her by refusing to consider her own feelings. He had been measured, slow, soothing where Henry had been all of the opposite to that. 

And deep within her, she wished he had gone further. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, chapters like this are the whole reason I wanted to write this fic - the whole "she throws herself at a man she barely knows and then he proposes always felt a little forced to me, so I wanted to explore what itd be like if Margaret was given a little space to breathe and think through her feelings. I hope you liked this (slightly shorter) chapter, and please feel free to leave a comment if you'd like to see anything in the future of this fic - I have a pretty strong structure in my head but there's a lot to flesh out :P


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret returns to the Thornton's house amidst rising tensions - but between whom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made use of the book once more in this chapter in order to move the plot without having to paraphrase - it's in italics as always!

Margaret sighed, fussing the lace on her cuff as she mentally prepared herself to go back to the Thornton's house. Though the relationship that her and John Thornton had taken a turn in a new direction, her relationship with his mother was altogether different; it had been ever since the day they first met on an ever downward spiral. The worst part was, Margaret understood the older woman's dislike of her. She was well aware how much a mother loved her son and when it came to John Thornton, who had rebuilt his family from the ashes and had always put them first, it was easy to see why Hannah Thornton was so vehemently opposed to Margaret challenging him. 

His sister was something else, too. Though Margaret appreciated the fact that it must be hard for a fashionable young lady to grow up so far away from the glamour of London society, Margaret found it hard to understand how the fashionable members of Milton society were so opposed to their own homes. She loved Helstone like nowhere else. Not only that bothered her, though. From what she understood, Fanny was around her own age and in that case, she was more than old enough to remember J-_Mr Thornton_ having to step up as the sole source of income for their family, and yet she treated money as if it were simply something to be burned. Margaret couldn't comprehend it at all.   
Her head cleared as she walked towards the house; though the air was still heavy with smoke and smog, the streets were quiet enough and she enjoyed the sensation of the air against her skin. Though she was conscious of some sort of tension that seemed to be vibrating at a high frequency throughout the town, Margaret's thoughts were pleasantly vacant in comparison to the turmoil of the previous night. A good walk had always done her good before and although her mother's complaint weighed heavily on her mind, she meditated on the fact that her errand might result in something to ease her mother's current complaint rather than allowing herself to sink into the dark thoughts that lay in her subconscious. 

As she walked through the gates of the mill, she could almost feel Hannah Thornton's eyes burning into her neck. She dared not look up, not wanting to elevate the woman into a supernatural being when really it was Mrs Thornton's own right to observe the comings and goings of her house, and yet not sure that she would be able to stop herself from doing so. Unlike the times she had visited before, the mill was eerily quiet: no clanking machines or hurried footsteps echoed off of the tall walls today. No shouting masters either.  
Judging by Fanny's reaction to the situation the Thorntons had found themselves in, Margaret supposed the impending apocalypse was about to descend on Milton. Though she thought that Fanny's reaction was, as always, a little overblown, the edge of steel in Mrs Thornton's voice sent a chill down her spine, and as the roar of voices got closer and closer, Margaret began to regret her decision to leave the house at all. 

Until she saw him. 

As Mr Thornton strode across the yard, smiling encouragingly at his Irish workers, Margaret had to fight the urge not to smile in response despite the situation. He had lost the look of vulnerability she had seen the previous night; but rather than the anger she had often seen in his face, his countenance displayed nothing but an earnest determination. In another life she thought, one where he had not reached out to her, she wouldn't have paid any heed to the obvious care he held for his new workers in the face of the screaming masses outside, but in the here and now, it softened her heart that he had placed them in as safe a place as he could - even if in the grand scale of things, that place was not so safe at all. 

Margaret had always worried that, when a crisis struck, she'd go to pieces in the same way Fanny was, in the same way she could imagine Edith or even Aunt Shaw doing, and despite the baying mass that was threatening to tear the door down, As he ran up the stairs (two at a time by the sound of it) shouting commands, Margaret felt a sense of calm energy course through her. 

"Mother, take Fanny and Jane to the back rooms - you'll all be safer there if they break down those gates." He grimaced. He had come *in a little flushed, but his eyes gleamed, as in answer to the trumpet-call of danger, and with a proud look of defiance on his face*.

Margaret moved to the window to observe the yard in time to see the gates bulge inward quite unnaturally, like a container bending at the seams as a result of its contents being under too much pressure. Hannah Thornton looked as though she was about to argue when Fanny dropped down in a dead faint. 

"John, I'm coming back as soon as I've taken Fanny to her room. You shan't weather this alone, I won't permit it." 

"Mother, please. I need you to be safe!" His mask of defiance slipping as he scowled at his mother's willful ways, he simply shook his head when she tried to argue, and to Margaret's internal surprise after a pause Hannah Thornton nodded in agreement as she and Jane hoisted Fanny between them. As they left, Mr Thornton turned to Margaret, his face set back in a hard line. She had rather hoped that he had forgotten about her, cloistered in the curtains as she was. 

"Miss Hale, I must offer my deepest apologies that you have been caught up in all of this, and now must face the same risk we do." He paused as the gates let out an unearthly groan. "Please, if you take the stairs you'll find my mother - go to her, I promise you'll be safe."   
"I shan't." She set her face in a grimace to match his own, refusing to back down even as he moved closer to her, seeming to wish to intimidate her with his height.

"...Excuse me?" He looked down at her through narrowed eyes. 

"Your mother is right - you cannot face a starving hoard of men alone, you'll be ripped to pieces, although I dare say you may deserve it!" Though she was expecting an angry comeback, Margaret was taken aback when her comment was met with something which almost looked like sadness in Mr Thornton's eyes, though it was quickly replaced by his usual sternness. 

"Miss Hale, whilst I appreciate your concern though it seems to be more for the men who seem intent on tasting my blood rather than the poor corpse that they'll feed off of, I will not be facing them alone - the soldiers will be here any mo - Christ, here they come!" He grabbed her elbow then in an attempt to move her away from the window and towards the stairs, but only succeeded in turning Margaret around in a tight circle against his torso, his arm wrapped around her middle as they both stared out of the window, and in the shock of the moment Margaret didn't pull away. The men seemed less like bodies and more like a fluid mass, pouring in to the yard and filling all of the available space. Margaret couldn't speak, though she wanted to; not out of fear of the men but out of the sheer shock of being pressed against the man that she had so frequently thought ill of like a common prostitute. He seemed to cling on to her as if he was a man a heartbeat away from drowning and she was a rubber ring, and indeed she could feel his heartbeat against her back, but where she had been expecting a staccato rhythm she found the steady, dependable beat of a man in control.   
_Oh, God!” cried Margaret, suddenly; “there is Boucher. I know his face, though he is livid with rage,—he is fighting to get to the front—look! look!”_  
_Who is Boucher?” asked Mr. Thornton coolly_ pushing forward against her back to get a better view our of the window. The effect on the crowd was electric; a current seemed to run through them, sending errant bodies flying towards the house, towards them.   
"Ungrateful louts. Nevermind this Boucher, Miss Hale, I must order you upstairs. I couldn't bear it on my conscience whether I am alive or dead in a days time hence if you were to fall victim to these men." But Margaret would not move, and Thornton made no effort to push him away from her position, curled against him as she was.   
"I cannot, Mr Thornton. As much as I think the industry at play in Milton is responsible for this...this disorder, you are just one man, and they are many, and I cannot leave you. I will not. I'm sure that they must realise that too - oh, if only you could _talk_ to them!" She allowed herself to be turned around by him then, and although he never took his arms from around her middle, it gave her enough room to see his face. He wore a strange expression; it was like fear and passion and rage all mixed up into one ambivalence.   
"Margaret, please. Please go upstairs where you'll be safe. I promise I'll be well at the end of this - they may shout and yell and bang all they want, but I am still their master." His voice broke as he pleaded with her, but Margaret stood resolute.   
_"No, John_." He huffed at her use of his Christian name, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   
"You sound like my mother!" His head snapped up as if he heard something she couldn't quite make out over the screaming outside, and a second wind of courage seemed to rebolster him for the fight.  
“_The soldiers will be here directly, and that will bring them to reason.”_  
_“To reason!” said Margaret, quickly. “What kind of reason?”_  
_“The only reason that does with men that make themselves into wild beasts. By heaven! they’ve turned to the mill-door!”_  
_“Mr. Thornton,” said Margaret, shaking all over with her passion, “go down this instant. Go down and face them like a man. Speak to your workmen as if they were human beings. Speak to them kindly_.” She smiled weakly in an attempt to convince him despite the fact that it felt like the last thing she wanted to do in the face of those innocent men being cut down and culled like rabid livestock. His face seemed to cloud over at her words, so she dragged up a final comment in order to encourage him. "Speak to them as you speak to me - we have our disagreements, but you continue to treat me like an equal - where is the difference between me and them?" She felt his chest heave into a sigh as he pushed her away, and as a result almost missed his final murmur before he opened the door. 

"The difference is, Margaret, I don't want to kiss any of them."

  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight! Fight! Fight!

As John thumped down the stairs, he cursed himself for falling in love with a woman who seemed so desperate to have him killed off even before they were an item. He supposed that is what it must be, love, if he was insane enough to walk out into a group of men who wanted to kill him in order to prove to her that he had a shred (at least a shred) of decency within him. At least this time he hadn't had to worry about her discovering his lust for her when he had pressed her tight to his chest - the shouting mob had quite ruined the mood.   
Opening the door, he braced himself for the mass to hurl itself at him, but they seemed to simply gnash their teeth at his appearance; the horrid wailing and grunting grew louder, but they did not seem to move although individuals within the group moved of their own accord. He knew he ought to say something, knew Margaret was watching and wanted him to speak to them, but for the very life of him he could not think what would satiate them. He would not cow to their violence, but neither did he want to push them from threatened to actualised violence against him.   
"Stop that noise, would you! If you wish to be treated as men rather than dogs, I expect you to act like it!" A roiling angst ran through the crowd but his words did not seem to anger them any more than they already were.   
"You're behaving like animals! I can't believe you have the cheek to call those poor Irish savages, and yet act like this! Well I tell you something - you may have thought that this would end your strike and yer right, at least for some of you! So you'd better heed this warning because I'm not going to repeat myself - go home, now, if you want a job to come back to! The soldiers are coming, and you best believe if you're lucky enough to escape with your lives, you won't have fingers to operate any machinery with! So GO!" A ripple ran through the men in front of him then, not towards the house but away from it as some of the more sensible, or more cowardly men made for the gaping maw of the broken gate. But just as John was about to turn to the rest of the men, time seemed to slow down. 

He saw a rock spinning towards his head, to fast to dodge, to fast even to adjust for its impact. He gritted his teeth in preparation for the impact but where he had expected the heavy, dull impact of granite against his skull he felt a gush of cold air instead, and then moments later the solid impact of a body against his as it rolled to the floor. As if he was moving through treacle, he crouched down with difficulty and rolled the body over, but rather than being shocked back to reality by seeing his saviours face, time seemed to slow to a still around him. 

Margaret. 

He touched the bloodied wound on the side of her head gently and her face twitched, but she did not stir from her faint.   
Hes stood quickly not minding the blinding rush of blood to his head as time sped back up again, forcing him unceremoniously back into the present. 

"You want to be treated like men and yet you harm a woman who only wanted to do you good!" He stretched out his arms to make a larger target for the mob. “_Now kill me, if it is your brutal will. There is no woman to shield me here. You may beat me to death—you will never move me from what I have determined upon—not you!” He stood amongst them with his arms folded, in precisely the same attitude as he had been in on the steps,_ but the soldiers came tearing into the yard at that very moment.   
John rubbed a hand over his face before returning to the prostrated body of Margaret. He gently stroked her face in a half-hearted attempt to wake her up, but when it failed, he gently bundled her up against his chest and kicked his own front door in, running through the halls to place her on the sofa they had been standing in front of only minutes before. 

Dabbing a handkerchief into a glass of water Fanny had left on the side, he gently cleaned the blood from her face and was rewarded by a half smile; though she was still unconscious, the colour had already begun to sluggishly come back to her cheeks. 

"Mr Thorton, are you up there? It's all clear, Sir, but we must take a statement from you so we can round up the ringleaders." The man, who Thornton presumed was the head of the guard sounded awfully calm for someone who had probably just cut down at least twelve angry men. 

"Thank you Captain, I'll be down presently" he shouted back. Turning back to Margaret, he dropped his voice again and pressed his mouth to her ear. 

"That was a foolhardy thing you did just then, Miss Margaret Hale. A damned foolish thing. I know you probably only came out to reprimand me for being so harsh and yet you saved me, you strange little creature." John felt then something he was unaccustomed to; he felt tears prickle his eyes as the thought of Margaret coming to save him, and the thought of her dying from a blow intended for him forced themselves into his mind simultaneously  
_"Oh, my Margaret—my Margaret!" He cried, "no one can tell what you are to me! Dead—cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh, Margaret—Margaret!_” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to include that last line because WOW, Lizzie may have missed the slow burn in the novel but she still gabe us some bangers along the way!


	7. Chapter 7

Margaret knew that the crowd were turning against him as soon as she saw a dark spot form in its centre where a group of older boys had grouped together as if they were plotting something. For a second, she couldn't move, frozen to the spot by fear but as she looked down at John Thornton, she remembered two things: the burst of courage that the sight of him had inspired in her moments before, and the sensation of his soft lips against her hand. _I have to do something_ she thought to herself, and although running in her skirts was something easier said than done, Margaret pelted down the broad staircase and flew out of the front door towards John at a speed she didn't think possible. As she reached him, a rush of relief flooded her; as long as she was here, she could reason with the mass, she could place herself between him and them and they surely wouldn't attack her. 

And then she was struck by a bolt of lightning with a seating pain in the side of her head. 

Of course, as she floated in the limbo of her unconscious, she realised it hadn't been a bolt of lightning, but rather some small projectile to the temple, a rock or a bottle, maybe. She had seen the symptoms before in Fred when a boy had kicked him in the side of the head whilst rough housing, and although she'd never expected to be in the situation herself, she had retained the information for future use.   
Future use on her children, perhaps. Or her husband, for that matter, if he had a temper like John's. Going about fighting hundreds of people on his own like an idiot. 

_John._

The thought of him made Margaret claw her way back to consciousness; it took all her might when she awoke to see Fanny and Jane standing over her not to yell his name to bring him to her side. She thought even if it had been Mrs Thornton watching her she could have gotten away with it; she had just saved her son from a nasty smack in the head. But Fanny and Jane were gossips. 

"...and Sarah says the young miss threw herself in front of the master! It was all very heroic, like." That was Jane's voice, and for a second Margaret felt her ego inflating, until she heard Fanny's cutting response.   
"I don't think so, Jane. Miss Hale was probably just trying to run away! The house is so big she probably got lost, little country bumpkin she is, and found her way out instead of up the stairs!" Fanny laughed her grating laugh , which frankly was enough to give Margaret a headache at the best of times, and though Jane joined in she seemed rather unsure. Margaret, on the other hand, was burningly indignant, but at the risk of revealing her increasingly close and yet confusing relationship with Fanny's brother, stayed silent. 

"Here, Doctor Donaldson. She's had a nasty bump on the temple as I told you, though she looks a damn sight better now than she did ten minutes ago - poor girl looked like a corpse!" At least Mrs Thornton was feeling a little sympathetic, Margaret thought internally. She opened her eyes and looked towards the Doctor, but before he could say anything, a velvety voice boomed out from the stairwell. 

"Don't be melodramatic, Mother, she didn't look like a corpse by the time you saw her - she had a good colour on her!" Margaret rolled her eyes imperceptibly at Mr Thornton's comment, and made to sit up, resting against the arm of the sofa.

"I feel quite well Doctor, really, I just want to go back to my Mother- "

"Nonsense, girl, you were unconscious for at least fifteen minutes!" Hannah Thornton reached over to her, grasping her face in a surprisingly maternal gesture and looking into her eyes. 

"It's a nasty place to get a bump, Mrs Thornton, but if Miss Hale says she's well enough to return home, I think we ought to let her. It'll be no good stressing her mother unnecessarily." Mrs Thornton grimaced, but nodded an aquiesence at the Doctor's words. 

"I can take Miss Hale back, mother, I'll get the carriage." Mr Thornton nodded at Margaret, with a twinkle in his eye only she could see, but Doctor Donaldson shook his head. 

"No Sir, I think you have more than enough to be getting on with. I'm going that way anyway, and I wish to leave instructions with Dixon in case the patient worsens. Come Miss Hale, take my arm, and we shall get you back home in no time." Doctor Donaldson proffered a professional arm, lifting Margaret from her seat and carefully supporting her, with John quick on their tails. As the Doctor gave his driver instructions, John placed an innocuous hand on Margaret's shoulder leaning in slightly as if he were, to the outside eye, attempting to comfort her, where in reality he was breathing something barely audible into her ear that sent a wave of terror through her in a way no mob ever could.

"I have something important to tell you, Miss Hale. I'll visit you in the evening. Please be ready."


	8. Chapter 8

Her head throbbed. Her throat throbbed too, scratched by a scream she didn't remember making. And her heart, oh, her poor heart, torn between the mob, drawn to the point of madness by their desperation, those poor starving Irish who had done nothing except exist, and John. Poor John, who had gone against his own gut feeling and spoken to the mob and had almost paid dearly for it. Though the missile had smacked into her temple with some force, she knew that though he was taller and more robust had she not interjected, John Thornton would have suffered more blows than that before the soldiers had arrived, and would have been left in a far worse state than she.   
It had begun to drizzle as the carriage had left the house, and by the time it arrived at her own, the rain had grown so heavy it was bouncing off of the pavement in excitable droplets. Margaret rather thought it was cruelly mimicking her mood; as they had left the Thornton's house amid the chaos of the yard, she had felt too spaced out to concentrate on anything much more than the pain in her head but as as she ascended the stairs of her father's house, she fell into a low mood with every step.  
After Doctor Donaldson had left and Dixon had forcibly corralled her into bed at his instruction, Margaret lay against the cool cotton of her pillow case and tried to make sense of her current upset. At first she considered the possibility that it was something to do with John Thornton; though he had faced his workers as she'd asked, he'd still been rough with them. But not unduely so she mused, considering how they'd behaved. And although he had certainly acted somewhat in inappropriately as he'd clenched her to his chest _(did that really happen? Did he really say something about kissing her_? She didn't quite know) it hadn't unsettled her at the time and it didn't now earlier. Nor was it the adrenaline from the day - that had manifested as another set of symptoms entirely, her body thrumming with energy and her heart beating wildly even now.   
"What's wrong with me? I have escaped with my life, my health and my dignity, and yet I feel as though the world is weighing down on my chest." She groaned softly as she pressed a hand to her injury, wincing behind closed eyes as a yawn escaped her.   
She just didn't understand.   
***  
Margaret was dreaming. It was one of those funny dreams where you knew who you were, knew that it wasn't the real world and yet still all of the events that happened seemed somehow more real, pulsing and vibrating with life. The fact that the pain in her head had gone was the only factor which conclusively proved to her that it was in fact a fantasy.   
She was walking down the high street in Milton, and yet it was not Milton; it was clear and clean and the buildings glimmered in the warm summer sun. None of the people seemed to take any notice of her, but neither were they ignoring her. It was if she didn't exist at all. A soft wind touched her skin, blessedly cool in the warm sunlight, and as she looked up she realised that the cloud of smog that always seemed to be present in her waking life was gone.   
As she walked, the setting around her melted like ice on a bright winter morning, and suddenly she found herself in front of a dingy wooden door. There was a window next to it, small and dusty, through which she could see an immaculately scrubbed wooden table. Bemused by the contrast, she pushed open the door; as she did, time shifted around her and she was plunged into darkness, only rough outlines of furniture visible in the light of the dying coals. From upstairs, the weak light of a cheap candlestick glimmered and sputtered as it's owner walked above Margaret's head, and, not wanting to be left behind in such a dark, unfamiliar place, she climbed the staircase surefootedly.   
The landing was only marginally lighter than the downstairs of the little cottage, but Margaret's eyes had adjusted well enough for her to see that there were only two rooms - one, on the left, had the sound of two quiet snores emitting from behind its cheaply made wooden door. The other was ajar, bright light spilling out and cutting a razor thin line across the tired floor boards. Margaret walked forward softly, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was in another family's house, and even though this was a dream, too many of her dreams recently had turned into nightmares.   
Pressing her face to the crack of light, she gained a narrow field of view into the room. It was bare to the point of barrenness, with a single bedstead in one corner and jug of water on the floor, but little else except for a book, lying just next-to the figure of a boy curled up ontop of his sheets. His dark hair was long and messy, fussed into stiff peaks against his pale skin. His long, slender form seemed too big for the bed he was lying on, his legs tightly tucked under his chin, one arm draped around them and the other across it, hand and long, delicate fingers splayed across his face. Though his features were covered and the dim light of the candle had shrouded his body in shadow, Margaret knew exactly who it was - it was John.   
He was younger than the John Thornton she knew now, so young he looked like a child in his state of repose, though when Margaret grew closer to his prone form, she decided that he was probably around the age of twenty - around the age she was now. Though initially she had presumed that he was asleep, Margaret could see that his chest was heaving erratically, and, as she sat at the foot of his bed, he uttered a heart wrenching sob. This was not the John Thornton she had come to know; he was rawer, more angular, more fragile, and as she rested a hand on his ribcage she could feel his heart fluttering weakly beneath her fingertips. It shocked her in a way she hadn't expected, being so different to the powerfully regular heartbeat she had felt against her shoulderblades only hours ago.  
"John, can you hear me? It's me, Margaret. It's okay, John, its alright - please don't cry, love!" But even when she tried to shake him out of his passion, the young John Thornton could not perceive his heart's love being there, could not feel the warm glow that often filled him in his present self when she walked into the room. He was utterly and completely alone in his misery, and Margaret could do nothing but cry with him.   
***  
When Margaret awoke, it was dark outside, the last vestiges of sunlight shining weakly at the horizon below an expanse of crimson and violet and blue. Pinprick stars shone against their regal backdrop, and although Margaret couldn't make out any constellations through her postage-stamp window, the sight of them made her smile to herself. When she was younger, still in Helstone, she had often stood outside her family home on clear, cold evenings like this one when she'd been feeling tense or worried or angry, opening her little heart up to the heavens in the hope that the infinite cosmos would give her a little peace, and even now, so far away from that place and time, seeing the starts had the same effect on her despite the upsetting content of the dream that was fast slipping away from her.  
She was anxious, she realised, but not about any of the things that had leapt out at her before her nap. The whole reason for her bad mood was something she'd never worried about before: a man's approval. Specifically, John Thornton's approval. Although she had protected him, the stern tone he had taken with her as she'd left with Doctor Donaldson had sown the seed of doubt in her soul - what if he'd taken her behaviour as a slight, or worse, as an example of her impropriety? She hadn't touched him, hadn't visibly been trying to protect him, she thought, but maybe he'd read the situation differently. They weren't exactly unused to misunderstanding one another. 

_You're worried because you care for him_   
  


No,but that wasn't right at all - she hadn't taken leave of her senses, nor had she thrown herself in front of him because she had felt some obligation to him; she would have done it for any man.   
  


_You may have done it for any man, but you're obsessing over it because you love him_   
  


That couldn't possibly be true though, could it? She didn't want to deny she cared for John Thornton, that much was true at least theoretically. And she certainly adored the way he touched her, even if it wasn't *right*. But love? Surely not.   
Except Margaret wondered if love wasn't really like how it had been told to her in fairytales; if it didn't mean being swept off your feet and transported to a castle where every one of your whims would be tended to as a reward for the ordeal you'd suffered before. Aunt Shaw had always said that her parents had married for love, and yet their love was practical - it was romantic, certainly, but in an understated and subtle way. It was comfortable and comforting.   
And John, well, he made feel comfortable too.   
"Miss Margaret, are you awake? Mr Thornton is downstairs and although I've told him he'd better go straight home considering the knock on the head you've had, he won't leave til he's heard it from you himself, Miss. Shall I tell him to leave?" Dixon spoke through the door in a whisper, although the irritation in her voice was plain to hear.   
"No, Dixon. I'll be down presently, please tell Mr Thornton to make himself comfortable."  
"But Miss-"  
"Thank you, Dixon. I'll be down right away."  
_Time to face the music_.


	9. Chapter 9

John paced up and down the narrow room, the irrational worry of banging his head on the sagging ceiling niggling at the back of his mind. In truth, it wasn’t the only thing preoccupying him; his mother’s anxieties about him leaving the house wouldn’t leave his mind either. Initially, he had thought the problem had been the earlier riot, that she was worried he would come to some harm outside of the mill gates by the workers who hadn’t been rounded up by the soldiers, but after his initial attempts to pacify her had fallen flat, he got the feeling that there was something else. Especially considering it seemed to have something specific to do with Miss Hale.

Though John had spoken with urgency to Margaret earlier in the day, he wasn’t quite sure what it was that he wanted to say to her. There were a number of things, or really feelings that he wanted to express verbally, wanted to sing from the rooftops, but whenever he had tried to put them into words before, he just…couldn’t. He didn’t know how to tell her that she was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last before he went to sleep, where once the mill had dominated his thoughts. He didn’t know how to tell her that his mind’s eye constantly drifted to her, supplying him with a vast quantity of images of her going about her daily life as he overlooked the mill floor. He didn’t know how to tell her that seeing her made him feel like he was caught in the worst fever of his life, or how it felt to him now as if she had been a constant presence in his life since he was a child.

It was just _impossible. _

And yet he had to say something. He had to express his feelings or he thought he might burst, and she had to know how she felt too. He had decided on his walk to the Hale’s house that he wouldn’t propose, not unless Margaret prompted it herself, and even then he’d only give her the option; if he knew anything about her, it was that it took her time to adjust to the real world because she so frequently reverted to the one inside her head. And as much as he hoped that she returned even one tenth of his love for him, he knew that even if she didn’t he would never stop loving her. He had realised that when she had thrown himself in front of her, seen her lying as the dead on the cold flagstones; his adoration was ceaseless and eternal, something he had never in his life felt before.

“Good evening, sir. I trust you are well, after the trouble this morning.” he hadn’t heard her come down the stairs, but there Margaret was, standing like a vision of an angel in the doorway, bathed in the evening sunlight. Her hair was still mussed slightly from sleep, braided loosely down her back, and although she had a different gown on from the morning, it was far simpler, far easier to put on.

“Did I wake you? I’m ever so sorry, Miss Hale. I should have been more considerate and come in the morning, but I felt compelled to come now.” He smiled at her, beckoning to the set of chairs closer to the window. “Shall we sit and talk a little?”

“You didn’t wake me, Mr Thornton, although it’s true that I had recently awoken of my own accord - I hope I don’t look too unpresentable! I would have spent more time getting ready,” she walked over to the chair across from where he was sitting and sat down, “but the promises of a conspiratorial plot you teased me with earlier have aroused a rather childish love of adventure in me.” She smiled across, not looking at him but out of the window at the setting sun as if she were recalling days gone by, and John thought she had never looked more perfect. He wondered what it was she was thinking of; no doubt days in Helstone where she’d spent, much to her mother’s chagrin, whole days in the fields chasing butterflies and hares. John had presumed that Margaret was an only child since Mr Hale had never mentioned any other children, but now he began to wonder whether she’d had any little playmates, at least for a little while.

“conspiratorial may be giving what I have to say to you an air of grandeur that it probably does not deserve, but at the same time it has burdened me for so long that I must share it with you none the less.” At the mention of a burden, a look of slight discomfort passed Margaret’s face, and John felt a pang of doubt in his heart. He hoped that it was simply a sign that Margaret had been let down before, or that she had experienced an unwanted affection from another man, but nothing was certain when it came to her.

“Margaret, before I say anything, I want you to be certain of something.”

“And what is that, Mr Thornton?” she arched an eyebrow in feigned humour, but John could tell from that simple movement that an anxiety was bubbling below her relaxed facade.

“I want you to know that… god, if only words came more easily to me! Margaret, I wish you to understand that whatever I say and however you feel about it, I’ll accept it without a question. I’m only here because I cannot contain my feelings any longer but please, if you remember anything, remember that my feelings are pure; they come straight from the heart. I know you’ve not had the best opinion of me in the past and you probably still don’t, but all I want for you is the best - not to trap you, or ensnare you, or do anything that displeases you - do you understand?” He decided to go against his gut feeling and gently reach over to hold her hand. Despite what he had thought, though, she did not recoil, and the colour did not fade from her face; she sighed softly, and placed her other hand over his.

“John, if those are your conditions, I must tell you of mine too before you proceed. May I?” His lips quirked upwards at her response, tilting his head to the side like a curious hound.

“I see you have learnt the language of commerce, Miss Hale - you are drawing up a contract with me, I see! ” he smiled widely then, just for a second, before nodding more seriously. “I will happily listen to anything you have to say, Margaret. Now or at any time you wish to talk to me, about anything. Especially,” he paused to wink at her, “if you call me John more often.”

“Joh-Mr Thornton. I don’t profess to be accustomed to manners of the heart. I realised earlier that perhaps my image of love, which I had always believed to be veritable and consistent, has little basis in reality and altogether too much of an origin in the fanciful stories of my cousin Edith. I had always thought that I would know the man I would love for the rest of my life as soon as I set eyes on him for that reason, and whilst now I can see that that way of thinking is rather flawed, it has some basis in my experience. If I tell you the context to this, you must promise never to tell my father, John.” He nodded an assent, although he could scarcely move in fear that some brute had hurt her, and she continued. “ After I left London but before we moved from Helstone, a man I had known there, the brother-in-law of my cousin, came to visit me. My feelings towards Henry,” she paused again, and from the way she swiped a hand across her face as if she was in pain, John realised that recounting this tale was more difficult than she had thought, and so he squeezed her hand. “Well, Mr Thornton, let me sum it up very quickly to say that my feelings toward Henry were filial at best - though I knew him fairly well he had always been a very quiet and solemn type, and so I knew him only to the extent that it is possible to know a person like him. But he proposed to me. And the worst part is, I thought at the time there was no love in his eyes; he rather looked at me like a prize filly at a horse auction I thought. But now I am conflicted, or rather, I am worried that that…that that is all love is. Possession, and subjugation. If that is what love is, I shall remain a spinster my whole life.”

John nodded, finally feeling like the pieces of the real Margaret had fallen into place. She wasn’t aloof, or haughty, or reactionary at all - she was overwrought. He had known that the transition from Helstone to Milton had not been easy for her, and yet there was another layer to her suffering that he had not even begun to uncover. She had grown up, unlike him, in a bubble of peace and limited interaction with the world around her and as a result had never learned the way that wider society acted. She understood _society _as any young woman did, but she didn’t understand the real society, the one that was gritty and tense and populated by people who didn’t understand the nuances of the genteel. And yet she didn’t belong in that bubble, that much was certain to him; she yearned for a life outside of it, a life which felt real, and yet every step that she had taken towards living that life had only added to her confusion and her hurt.

Wordlessly, he rose, bringing her up with him and moving to the window in a parallel of their actions earlier in the day. As he looked out across the horizon, he finally felt his words fall into place.

“I can’t tell you what love is, Margaret. I can’t tell you about the nuances of romantic passions nor how relationships function and continue to function for decades. But,” he dropped a kiss to her hair, gently squeezing his arms that had been wrapped loosely around her middle, “I can tell you how I love you…but only if you want me to.” She leaned back against him, relaxing against his torso despite the tension he could feel in her muscles.

“I think…I think I would like that. But John?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t…be offended if I cannot reciprocate. My feelings are hazy, and perhaps I will find some peace through yours but I…”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Margaret. I’ll love you whether you love me back or whether you hate me for the rest of my life.”

“…please proceed then, sir.”

“I yearn for you like the moon yearns for the soft morning light, like the sun yearns for the rich purples and reds that only its demise can bring. My love for you feels like…like the softest silk against my skin, and at the same time like a fire burns deep inside my body threatening to engulf me at any moment. You see how those spires seem to wish to touch the sky, just once before they topple over in exhaustion? That’s how I feel about you. And despite the metaphors I have called to mind in aid of the expression of my feeling, you dwarf them all in my eyes. You’re more beautiful than the moon, the stars and the sun to me. So much softer than silk that it’d feel like the roughest cotton in comparison. So much more than a fire rages through me every time I look at you - the fire that embodies your passion and your rage consumes me faster than any flame could.

Some men might want to make you theirs, Margaret, but I want you to make me yours; I want to give you everything you need and everything you want, I want to spend all my waking hours doing whatever I can to make you happy. I want to worship you like a heathen, Margaret.

That’s what my love for you is like.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE as of 13/12/20
> 
> So, after much deliberation, I have decided that this will be the final chapter of this particular fic. I always intended to come back to it and write a few more chapters but...when i eventually came back to it after finishing my dissertation and taking some time off to recuperate, I found that the spark was lost. Maybe one day I'll return to it, but for now - thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my work, and especially thank you to those of you who have left messages (even the ones i haven't gotten around to reviewing yet) and kudos. see you on the other side!
> 
> \- LL


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